What did Dysphonia inspire?
noun; meaning "any disturbance of normal vocal function,
any impairment in the ability to speak normally,
as from spasm or strain of the vocal chords.”
any impairment in the ability to speak normally,
as from spasm or strain of the vocal chords.”
They had waited...
In cold.
In darkness.
In the unseen.
In the unknown.
The dark borderlands.
The forests on the edge of town.
They swept in upon us.
And they fed.
With teeth bared.
With eyes glowing.
With inhuman speed.
With inhuman ferocity.
Lashing at our throats.
The crushing silence.
Gorging themselves.
Upon men.
Upon women.
Upon the children.
Upon the blood.
Viscera. Dysphonia.
The scars on our necks.
The scars on our souls.
The scars in our dreams.
We dream - no more.
We live - no more.
We rest - no more.
We are - no more.
The gas lamps still light.
And we still move.
And we still believe that this pantomime is life.
And we wait.
In cold.
In darkness.
In the unseen.
In the unknown.
The blackened souls.
The shambling dust of the town.
Noël Coleman
The problem was that I hadn't been wearing my lucky sweater.
You know the one.
No, not that one. Are
you kidding? That one looks like
PajamaMan’s favorite pants.
It might be my least favorite.
It is definitely my least favorite.
No, the one Mom knitted after her soaps were cancelled. She was distracted for weeks. The chest is a bit too tight and the arms are
way too big. But it’s perfect.
Chelsea called it ugly and tried to use it in her
how-many-times-can-I-activate-the-shock-collar-on-this-before-it-starts-on-fire
experiments.
Build-Your-Own Kitten Plush
lasts 27 shocks before the odd smells start.
Around 34 later, the fur begins to simmer. According to her, it’s all very scientific. Which must be the way she pronounces “psychotic.”
I think she used the kitten plush as a direct threat against
the sweater. Which was totally misguided
because the kitten on mom’s sweater is a uni-kitten.
That’s a unicorn kitten.
Should totally
have gone without saying.
Which brings us back to the original problem: I was not
wearing my lucky sweater.
You see, if I had been wearing my lucky sweater then my
throat and mouth (and part of my nose, because who needs to breathe?) would
have been covered by the “Oh honey is this too long?” “No Mom, it’s perfect.” superhero
disguise otherwise known as the turtleneck that never really seems to end, then
none of this would have happened.
I wouldn't be sitting here, with an evil bird perched on my
shoulder.
I wouldn't be mute from whatever illegal procedure PajamaMan’s
“black market surgeon” performed.
I wouldn't have been arrested by the police when I was the
only one left on scene at what the media refuses to call anything other than
BREAD FACTORY BECOMES TOAST FACTORY IN FLAMES OF PAJAMAMAN’S WRATH event.
That would have been because I wouldn't have immediately
passed out from smoke inhalation.
Which
honestly should have killed this bird.
What are its tiny lungs even made of?
Knowing Chelsea, it might not even be a real bird.
Mostly, I would not be being held
in a prison cell with a bunch of people who I probably put here. Well, maybe. No one seems to recognize me without the sweater. I’d be out of
here by now if I just -
“Hey.”
Perfect. Now the miscreants are going to socialize.
“Aren’t you that kid?”
“WHAT KID?” squawked the (maybe
not a) bird. How does something that
small not have dysphonia from all the smoke?
“You look like that hero
kid. You know he’s the reason I’m here. Wait until I get my hands on that punk and
his ugly sweaters.”
And in a completely unrelated
turn of events, I am very happy about not having my lucky sweater.
“NAMELESS HERO.” The bird paused to chitter.
“What’d that bird say, kid?”
No.
No.
The bird didn't say a single thing the whole time I was being
questioned. Not a single, stupid thing. There is no way it would-
“I’M THE NAMELESS HERO.”
I’m going to find the polka playing
black market surgeon as soon as I get out of here.
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